Everything Flows, Nothing Remains
by Min Daae
Summary: "It would have been almost instant," the man was saying, dry, almost mechanical, with an attempt at sympathy sprinkled on top. "There would likely have been no pain."


_Author's Note: So whooooo likes ragged/confused/jumbled prose? RAISE HANDS. _

* * *

At first, Sam didn't even understand.

"What?" he said, because he'd heard that wrong, surely he'd heard that wrong, it was just his fucked up brain – things like this happened all the time, and he knew they weren't real, knew it because he would blink and look to the left and sometimes check pulse and breathing just in case but only when Dean was sleeping because he'd freak out otherwise-

He looked to his left. The chair was empty.

"It would have been almost instant," the man was saying, dry, almost mechanical, with an attempt at sympathy sprinkled on top. "There would likely have been no pain." Sam dug his fingernails into the scar, into his wrist when that didn't work, scrabbling for purchase, for pain. The man stayed.

"We need you to ID the body," the man said. _The body. _It echoed in Sam's head. _The body. The body. _

Sam heard himself make a low sound of distress.

"I'm sorry," the man said. _I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry. _Sam expected Lucifer to say something from over his shoulder. Expected-

Expected-

He didn't _understand._

_~.~  
_

So Dean was _(dead) _not here. Okay. That was fine. That was fine. It wasn't like – wasn't like. Wasn't like something.

Fuck.

He was fine. Honestly. Really. Stop asking. _Stop asking. _

He was supposed to ID the body. Supposed to ID Dean, walk in and tell them _yes, sirs, that's him, that's –_ not Dean Winchester, because they couldn't even die under their own names anymore. (One gunshot to the head, random mugging, almost instant. Probably painless.)

It was cold. He probably should have put on a coat before leaving. There hadn't been time. He couldn't think in there. Still couldn't think. Didn't know if he would ever be able to think again. His hand hurt but not enough. There was blood under his nails. Nothing changed.

_(It's over Sam your brother blew his brains out topside, he couldn't deal without you, who's surprised, not me-)_

It was fine.

Sam bent over and threw up. His stomach was still in knots, so he did it again. The second time it just hurt his stomach muscles and there was nothing left to bring up. There were cars going by, one at a time. He had to (identify the body) go back to the room. Call Bobby. No, wait. Call…

_(You're falling apart Sam, coming apart at the seams but I think I like you like this actually)_

He thought he was probably crying. He touched his face and when his fingers came away they were wet, but they were also red, so maybe he was wrong. Or maybe none of this was real. Maybe none of this was ever real.

That sounded good. If it wasn't real Dean was still okay. Probably. Unless he wasn't.

Cars kept passing. Car after car after car. Sam stopped and turned his head and watched them.

"What happens if you die in Hell?" He asked, and Lucifer rested his chin on Sam's shoulder and said, "You die, Sammy, what do you think?"

He needed to. Needed to.

God? _(Please god are you there it's me Sam.) _

"What are you going to do now, Sam?" Lucifer asked, and Sam echoed it back at him, "What are you going to do now, Sam?" and there was a scream waiting somewhere in his throat that wouldn't come out, and Sam thought he might choke on it, might suffocate on it. Might-

We need you to identify the body.

"I'm sorry," Lucifer said, and sounded terribly sincere. He looked up. "Do you think it'll snow tonight?" It was cold. So damn cold.

He thought there was a poem about this once.

"Quiet and meaningless as wind in dry grass," Lucifer said. "Or rat's feet over broken glass."

He thought Dean would have-

Would have-

~.~

The motel room was a mess. Sam couldn't remember doing it, but he might have. Everything was a little vague. A little hazy. The mess bothered him.

Sam started picking it up. He stopped, put everything back where it was. He was here, wasn't he? Yes, sitting there, by that broken glass. When they called. When they called _male gunshot wound to the head, phone in his pocket listed you as his ICE. _

_Sir?_

_Sir?_

Oh god, Sam thought he said then. And then nothing. Because this didn't happen. Not like this.

We need you to identify the body. (Stitching gaping wounds together, the smell of death thick in the air, not sure how he was still breathing. Indiana.) I'm sorry.

"What are you going to do, Sam?" Lucifer asked again. His fingers trailed through the broken remnants of the glass. He picked one up and examined it. "Stone number one," he said, "Isn't that right?" Sam shuddered.

He sat down on the bed. "I can't do this," he said.

"You never could," Lucifer said softly. He smiled a little. "You were just fooling yourself." Sam dropped his face into his hands. (A parking lot and a scared kid and that was a gunshot, too, but he was there, and that never happened, not really-)

"You should really salt and burn the corpse," Lucifer told him. "Course, I don't know who's going to do yours."

"I'm not," Sam said, and wasn't sure why he protested. Lucifer's smile widened.

"Yes you are," he said. "Maybe not today. Maybe even not tomorrow. But all those days, Sam. All that _time. _What are you going to do?"

Saving people. Hunting things. The family business.

We need you to identify the body.

"No," said Sam, grabbed a handful of glass and clenched his fist around it. "_No._"

~.~

It was dark out. Still cold. He'd forgotten to put on a jacket. It didn't seem to matter. His hand felt wet. And it hurt.

He walked. Somewhere out here was the man who'd shot his brother. Somewhere out here. Somewhere. (You're a hunter. You'll find him.)

And then what, Sam?

And then what? Dean thought he was strong. Dean didn't know how wrong he was. Dean-

Dean-

"Fucking shit," Someone said, right in front of him. "Are you high, man?" Sam bared his teeth at them, and they skittered out of the way. Blood slid across his knuckles. It felt cold.

Maybe he wouldn't even kill the guy. He just wanted to know _why. _Why killing Dean was so necessary. So important. Why everyone thought they needed to (had the right to) take him away. Maybe that was all he needed to know. Maybe then he would get it. Make sense of this. Of everything.

Someone slammed him into a wall. _"Sam, stop,_" someone was saying, "Jesus, hold on, didn't you hear me, where the _fuck _do you think you're-"

"No," Sam mumbled. "That's not. You can't. _We need you to identify the body _get away from me, stop, stop-"

"Sam, it's _me,_" he said, and that echoed and spiraled and echoed and Sam lifted his left hand and smeared blood and glass on warm, living skin and said, "Oh."

The gun slipped out of his right hand. It was so cold outside. He should have put on a coat.

"Oh."

~.~

Dean picked the glass shards out of his palm one at a time, muttering under his breath. Sam tried to breathe shallowly, in case loud noises chased him away. "Are you here?" He asked. Dean's head jerked and he didn't answer, so maybe Sam hadn't actually said it.

Except then he paused and said, "Yeah, I'm here," so he apparently had.

"You were dead," Sam accused.

Dean rubbed his forehead, leaving a smear of blood behind. "Some asshole grabbed my stuff," Dean said. "Wallet, phone, the works. Did you…the guy down at the morgue doesn't even look like me, Sam."

"I didn't. I couldn't." Sam swallowed around the lump in his throat, and then again. "They wanted me to…" Identify the body. We need you to identify the body.

Dean swore under his breath. "I'm alive," he said, low and fierce and tired. "Okay? I'm alive. I'm fine. Pissed off as fuck, yeah, but alive…Jesus, Sam. Your hand's a mess."

"It was the glass," Sam said. "On the table." The world was wobbling back and forth, and he felt a little woozy.

"Yeah," Dean said darkly. "I figured." He yanked out a large shard and Sam flinched; so did Dean. "Sorry. Jesus fuck. Sorry."

"I thought you were dead," Sam said. Quietly, quietly. Dean swallowed hard.

"I gathered that. Where were you…what were you doing?"

"I don't know," Sam said. His hand hurt. Dean's hands were warm. "It's happened before. It's happened a hundred times before. I couldn't – I couldn't. Dean. I couldn't."

Dean muttered something that sounded like _if I ever see that rat bastard again I swear. _

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered. "I didn't mean to – didn't mean to fall apart. I'll be okay. I'm okay."

"Yeah," Dean said wearily. "Sure. You're okay." He rubbed a hand over his mouth and then grabbed the gauze, started wrapping Sam's hand. "You gotta stop this, all right? You're going to have really fucking ugly palms."

"I'm glad you're alive," Sam said, because their rules didn't let him say _the world doesn't make sense when you're not there anymore. _The rules were important, though. They were what let them keep going and going and going.

Energizer Winchesters.

Sam choked on a laugh.

Dean's eyes softened, worry clear when he glanced up. "Yeah," he said. "Me too, Sammy. And I'm not going anywhere, all right?" Sam nodded. Dean's pat on his leg was solid, like the ground. "Let's call this one a day," Dean said, finally, wearily. "You look beat. _I'm _beat."

There was probably a rule against it, Sam thought, rocking back onto the bed and then forward. But he couldn't remember it right now. He shifted to wrap his arms around Dean and hug him tightly enough that he could feel the _thud-thud-thud _of Dean's heartbeat, or imagined he could. Dean patted his back awkwardly.

"It's okay, Sam," he said. "It's okay," and what does that even mean, Sam wondered, what's okay, what does it mean to be okay, I don't. Know.

But Dean was there and Dean was alive and letting go didn't seem like a good idea. Maybe in the morning.

Maybe tomorrow.

But not now. Not now.


End file.
